It's Not What You Think
by Pollux Unbound
Summary: Grimmjow tries but fails to veil his motives. He really has a twisted mind...and so does Ulquiorra. GrimmjowxUlquiorra. Szayel Apollo Grantz on the side. Oneshot GrimmUlqui


**Disclaime**r: I do not own Bleach; Kubo Tite does.

**Warning**: Explicit language ahead.

Ah, this is the life. No finer place to be in, if you asked me. Free food, superb ones at that too, first-class linen for clothing, overly adorned private suites for all the comfort one can get, chicks literally throwing their petite bodies at you…this is Las Noches Palace.

I have one teeny weeny little complaint though: I'm about to expire from fucking boredom, all eighty-something kilograms of my hot self.

I take a stroll along the corridors, the galactic scale of which sending all them gothic cathedrals cowering in their holy corners. I yawn, yawn, yawn, and scowl, then the process repeats itself once it finishes; that's basically the pattern of the facial contortions I pull every second of every minute of every hour of every fucking day. As a matter of fact, the productivity of said activity has made me wonder how much muscle weight my cheeks have put on since I started doing it.

I'm currently too busy with my wholesomely entertaining occupation, which for the most part involves scowling at the reaction-less walls, that I hardly notice my most convenient source of irritation jump up in front of me, like some bewitched mushroom. Szayel Apollo Grantz. Octava Espada. With the outrageous, flaming pink hair fluttering fluidly in his wake, the nuisance thrusts his pointed face just inches from mine as I become wholly convinced that he applied too much mascara beneath his eyes this morning. Or perhaps yesterday; he doesn't smell like he's been bothering with his shower lately.

"You busy, Sexta-chan?" He asks dreamily with obvious emphasis on the pronunciation of the first three letters of my title. If ya failed to guess what manner of lechery he's hinting on, you're a fool.

"Get lost." I answer. If I were a little less confident with my suspicion that the hypocrite Tousen would show up upon the tiniest hint of violence or disturbance, I would grabbed this moron's stupid fairy-flossy head, and bury it under the ample and waiting soil outside, together with his nonstop mouth. As it was, I wasn't so sure.

"Not in the mood, huh?" He asks. To hell with Tousen and his fucking justice and peace oratories and to whoever was the moron who named this maniac. His late brother, Il Forte, would've established a kind of remembrance, even continuity, if Octava's name somehow had been similar to his. 'El Fornicaro' suits Szayel well. If, however, it's too archaic for anyone's taste, 'The Great Fornicator' remains an alternative. But then again, 'The Formidable Pervert' edges a little more appropriate. But if simplicity or minimalism appeals more highly, anyone or anything can't have a better claim on 'The Fucker'.

"Fuck off, fucker."

"I'll show you my latest experiment." He offers, enthusiasm kicking him, like some ADHD patient. This seemingly relevant proposal, however, is so thinly-veiled I have to actually stop myself from gagging. If you translate this to his motives, he's more or less saying something like this: "Let's see how far my cock can go down your throat."

"Go away, bitch."

"Ho ho, are you serious? You sure you don't wanna hear about my new fashion creation?" He persists, and, eyeing me with deliberate dismay from head to toe, he's pretty much suggesting I'm in dire need of getting a makeover. The derisive jackass. 'New fashion creation' my ass. If my calculation serves me right, what he meant to say is: "You sure you don't want me to strip you naked down to your skin?"

"Screw you; I'm not falling for your shit twice in a row."

"Twice, huh? You've been in my bed thrice." If his grin could get any more malicious, he would…oh wait, that would be impossible, because right now not even the tiniest residues of human features remain in his face to confirm his relation to the species. And he laughs, the kind that can send real blood spewing from his mouth. His knees are on the floor, his left arm mercilessly clutching his stomach, and beads of tears are squeezing their way out his tightly clamped eyelids. Just what the fuck was so funny? The sadistic bitch. I saunter away, wanting to commit murder more than ever, as he continues to utter incoherent, nasty, and rude puns in between fits of epileptic laughter.

I turn to a corner as Octava's laughter dies down. He must have forgotten how to breathe and dropped dead, but I shouldn't get my hopes up; I must have gone a long way from him without noticing. Remember, I'm too busy scowling at the world.

And what do you know? Here is the favorite boy, Cuatro Espada, Ulqiuorra Scheiffer, in the process of emerging from Aizen-sama's chamber. Why am I not surprised? It's ten in the morning, a few strands of his hair are suspiciously out of place, his usually ridiculously white and spotless hakama and jacket are suffering from wine blots and random creases, his eyes are rather lacking in vigilance; all contrary to the demands of his meticulous attention to cleanliness and discipline.

"Had your fun last night?" I solicit with a maniacal grin, showing my fangs to the world. He closes the door behind him gently, so as not to stir the monster inside the accursed room. He slides past me as though I just made a very successful shot at getting completely ignored. I continue, "Oh, wasn't it the night before last night? How long have you been in there anyway?" For some reason, I CAN'T stop mocking. I'm at the point of stuffing my fist into my mouth, seriously. And he's exercising his oh so familiar tactic: Operation: Ignore Grimmjow. It must be noted that he does it impeccably. So, I can just let him have his peace and quiet, spare him my favorite pastime (causing him disturbance), but maybe tomorrow, or the day after that.

I follow him en route to his room…oh shit, why am I tailing this petulant bastard?

"Is there anything I can do for you, Grimmjow?" He asks. I pull to a halt and look at him straight in the eye. And just what is wrong with his color? You'd think someone has shoved his already bloodless face in the sand outside; either that or someone had his fun doing away with a bowl of face powder. Or Aizen-sama must have gone overboard with his sexual fantasies. Did Ulqiuorra cooperate? I can't tell, I don't wanna know, and I don't give a damn hoot. They can rock Las Noches down to ruin for all I fucking care. That, said, I'll just give a pass with my poking around and go to my room and—

"What are you doing with Aizen-sama?"

Whoopsie. I didn't just ask that. Octava may have REALLY died with laughter minutes ago so that his ghost could possess and torture and humiliate me. No better explanation. My sneer dissolves right on the spot, only to be resurrected in the form of some defenseless frown.

"Don't look at me like that."

The nerve of this prick! As far as I know, I'm the one who gives the orders here, not this apathetic, monotonous, cut-throat, no-nonsense boredom incarnate. Or is he being conscious about the way I was staring at him? Do I smell intimidation?

"Who the hell is looking at you? And how the fuck would you know I was looking at you if you weren't looking at me looking at you looking at me? Perhaps you're the one who's doing all the looking, huh?"

Fuck. Kill me. Why did I get so heated like that? A stultifying heat starts to distribute itself to every square inch of my body, and beads of sweat start to force their way out my skin, or perhaps I think so.

Ulqiuorra gives me his favorite response, blank face, before he turns to his heels, completing the whole process of ignoring me, again. Be gone, forever if possible; that would just make my day. In the meantime, I'll go have my mind checked—

"No really, what do you do at Aizen-sama's?" I find myself asking again. I know, I know, I'll have my mouth replaced. I pause to recover memories of past events that can serve as a clear testimony on how my mouth sprang a life of its own and started jabbing away with the stupidest stuff ever known to the living world. Really, someone has to figure out why it decided to betray its owner just like that. Just like that.

"Do you really want to know?"

"No. Jeez. Why should I concern myself with anything that has nothing to do with me?"

If there is indeed a perfect time to be defensive, this is just it. He sighs and recommences walking away, hands in his pocket like a pompous git. I stand forlornly at the soon-to-be deserted hall as I watch his slender back gradually get reduced in size in its journey to move on farther away and away, away from me. And the thought of reclaiming my privacy descends upon me; it's so good to be free from the bothersome—

"Seriously, what's your business with Aizen-sama?

Me and my fucking mouth. I give up. I should. I can't arrange this without medical assistance. Honestly, this mouth has to fucking free itself from psychosis.

"Why are you so interested?"

"Whoa, now you wait and think before you speak. Read my lips: Not. Interested. Far from it, in fact. And for my convenience, go away."

"Want a demo?" He offers.

Let's be completely serious here. I don't know what's gotten into me, but I'm sure as hell that sleeping with this chunk of ice is the last thing a hottie like me would wish to experience. Ever. Just who does he think he is? I can sweep anyone off his/her fucking feet with a wink or a grin, maybe with even a fucking breath, and now he's yapping, making me appear like the beggar who pines for charity. What the fuck.

"Yeah, sure, my room's this way." My mouth says.

**END**


End file.
